I live in a house on a hill on a cul-de-sac.
When Mother Nature sends snow, no matter how well we’ve shoveled our driveway, or how thoroughly VDOT has cleared every other street in the county: certain laws cannot be broken. I speak not of DMV statutes, but of the Law of Gravity and the Law of Traction, or lack thereof. (Also the law that says if the snow depth is greater than the distance between the bottom of your car and the top of the road, you will have trouble.)
As the snow fell on Saturday, we, along with all our neighbors, sat tight and watched our television to learn how the rest of the county was faring. When we went to bed we wondered—did we dare hope?—if we might wake to the sound of the snowplow.
Indeed, at 6:30 Sunday morning I did wake to the sound of a motor, but it was not the plow. It was my neighbor, he of the large and well-equipped SUV. He thought he could evade the aforementioned laws. But no, he got himself stuck, 15 feet from his driveway, and right where the plow would need to go.
When the people with the four-wheel drive SUVs can’t get out, those of us with Prisms and Camrys know to sit tight.
It was actually quite nice. My kids were just home from college. They postponed plans to meet up with friends. There were errands to be run and shopping to be done. But for two days, we hung out together. We talked, we watched football, we cooked and ate, we shoveled our driveway, we watched more football, we (mostly me) decorated the tree, we played Rummikub, more shoveling, more football, more eating.
Finally, on Sunday afternoon, we got the neighbor’s car dug out and back in his driveway. Then the plow came.
Today, the frenzy may begin again. But I did enjoy the interlude.